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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25270753">Everybody's Looking For Something</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredeuropean/pseuds/tiredeuropean'>tiredeuropean</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Endeavour (TV), Inspector Morse (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Ficlet, Gun Violence, Mental Anguish, ronnie box you magnificent arsehole, so uh...yeah. this happened, tee's impassioned tumblr rant made me feel Some Type Of Way about Ultimate Bastard Man Ronnie Box</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:01:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>448</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25270753</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredeuropean/pseuds/tiredeuropean</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>a character study drabble for the character of Ronnie Box, co-sponsored by Tee's very good points on tumblr.</p><p>it takes nearly a year for me to start writing again and the moment I do it's for Ronnie Box, the man with the arms of Adonis and the temperament of Satan's arsehole, we love to see it!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Everybody's Looking For Something</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/gifts">guardianoffun</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It should be a simple choice, really. </p><p>He's nothing but a grifter with enough luck to smooth over any suspicions, a pair of calloused fists that the old guard up at Robbery find occasionally useful when they're too high up to bloody their own hands. </p><p>It was good enough, for a time. </p><p>It still could be, were it not for the tantalizing taste of <em>more</em> that sits tempting and sweet on his tongue. Ill gotten gains, certainly, but what does it matter when the system has always been harsh to men whose mouths are stained with nicotine and colloquialisms? </p><p>He's not sharp, crisp consonants and and Oxford gowns like Bright and Morse, wouldn't want to be. Nonetheless, he's better the thankless slog of being the enforcing hammer of Robbery. </p><p>DCI feels <em>right</em>, the mantle on deserving shoulders, and he'll be fucked if he'll let some jumped-up Tory bastard with a pissing <em>code language </em>for a name take that from him--</p><p>It's settled, then. He knows what he has to do. </p><p>The gun lies on his kitchen table, almost innocuous beside a half eaten takeaway. He wants to reach for it, knows he should, but--</p><p>He thinks about Fancy — George, now; the dead don't need etiquette — of brown eyes glazed over with the cold sheen of death, of an engagement ring that'll never see use. </p><p>He thinks of Doctor DeBryn, easily dismissible as a portly bumbling fool if not for the sharp intelligence in his eyes and the quiet mournful dignity he paid to the body of the girl under the pylon. The duty-haunted yet ever loyal Fred Thursday. The cold knowing in Alan Jago's snake-eyed smile. </p><p>Even Morse, fucking <em>Morse</em>, with his hundreds of vinyl's worth of overpriced caterwauling and know-all attitude. He's an arrogant bastard, but Box is intimately acquainted with the cold touch of fear that put the ghost-white pallor in Morse's face when a car backfired outside the station not two weeks after George Fancy's funeral. Galling though it is, Box is man enough to admit that Morse is a bloody good policeman, and under the veneer of dictionary perfect English and too much cheap whiskey, probably a decent man too.</p><p>Morse is too good at his job, but he's also five foot nine of tightly wound misery and unchecked trauma with a mop of red-gold hair. An irritant, but one deserving of death? Box isn't so sure of that. </p><p> The light from the living room glints off the gun.</p><p>The clock on the mantlepiece ticks a symphony's crescendo.</p><p>There's a choice to be made, and eventually, a gun to be fired. For the first time since this whole shambles started, DCI Ronnie Box hesitates.</p>
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